


Rosewood

by sweetautumnwine



Category: The Adventure Zone (Podcast)
Genre: Character Study, Pre-Canon, oh boy the tag only has one n? Disagree, plays despacito on the fiddle, this one's for you
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-16
Updated: 2018-12-16
Packaged: 2019-09-19 19:16:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17007579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweetautumnwine/pseuds/sweetautumnwine
Summary: "I’m basically like the best violinist ever, but nobody’s ever gonna know who I am..."Johann always aspired for greatness. He never anticipated achieving it quite like he did.





	Rosewood

**Author's Note:**

> In which I took Johann's affection for his instrument way too far, but in like a sad way, not a sex way. Anyway I love Johann and he deserves more.

There were dreams to be found in the stars, in those swirling, endless expanses. Johann never considered himself to be lofty; he was as grounded as they came, eyes more often trained on the road ahead than on the sky above. But some nights, when his fingers ached from practice, he would lie on the grass outside his family home and breathe in time with the wind.

 

This was something he treasured, a moment of stillness, where he could be a part of something greater.

 

His mother was a talented carpenter, summoning shapes forth from unassuming wood, and Johann admired her craft, how her hands could coax beauty from felled trees and how her skin could remain soft to the touch. Her laugh was warm even in the darkness.

 

When Johann revealed his desire to perform, his mother couldn’t hide her disappointment. He had no siblings after all, and the family business would die with her. But she learned to smile, crafting him a clumsy instrument for him to practice. In time, she would learn the design, how to carve the hollow so that its sound was beautiful and pure. She would work into the night, burning the splintered failures, and wring her hands.

 

Her son would live his dream. She simply wanted to play a part in his story.

 

Though Johann was remarkably unskilled at carpentry, he had a surprising knack for horticulture. He tended to the gardens while his mother worked, harvesting ripe produce and pruning the rows of rosewood trees. They’d been planted years before his birth, now mature, beautiful with their dark veins and lush leaves. Johann adored them. He saw how much his mother softened at the sight of their buds in spring, how gently she would lift the low branches and whisper enchanting words of encouragement for the bows to weep and grow.

 

Their home was safe from the war. Outside the limits of any formal province, they lived in serene solitude, save for the trips his mother made to the nearby towns. She had to sell her wares if they were to survive, after all. Johann knew this. But her declining health made him worry, and when he was old enough, he insisted he accompany her.

 

The towns were modest and humble, but the people were good. On holy days, Johann would bring his instrument, the old and faded thing, to play with local musicians in celebration. His mother lingered toward the back of the crowd, pride blossoming on her features in the form of a smile.

 

And when she grew too ill to carry out her work, Johann fought. He strained himself in her shop as she rested, accumulating splinters in his fingers like porcupine quills, sanding the sides of shoddy products in the hopes that smooth edges would disguise the clumsy craftsmanship. In the quiet, he cursed himself, quietly enough so that no one would hear.

 

While he worked, his mother often tasked herself with a private project. The eldest rosewood in their arbor had fallen, and when she had enough strength, she severed its trunk with skill in spite of her tremors. She knew the shape that would emerge from beneath that beautiful bark, and when she could hear her son carving in her workshop, only then did she chip away at the wood.

 

Her methods were strategic. When he would come to her bedside, dusted in shavings and dappled with seat, she hid her hands beneath the blankets, flattening the edges of bandages. She smiled as though her pain were unimportant and listened to her son weave stories and songs to lull her to sleep.

 

She would not cry when he could see her. It wasn’t her poor health or her son’s labored efforts that brought forth tears; it was his talent, his gift. He could bring nations to their knees with a single note. She believed this more than anything.

 

Concealing the bleeding wounds of her fingers became more difficult as her strength weakened. Soon, she coughed so violently the sound was as a beacon, summoning Johann from even the farthest reaches of their gardens. She reached for him, grasping his hands with as much dignity as she could muster. He knew she would hate to see him distressed, so he kissed her forehead and blinked away tears, affixing a steely stare to her muted features.

 

When she pulled away, he nearly clung to her, but she was determined. From the other side of the bed, she withdrew a beautiful instrument, with strings like woven gold and a body made of rosewood. Hands trembling, she bestowed the gift upon her son and let her fingers trail along the satin edges as he lifted it away.

 

“ _I hope its music suits you_ ,” she said softly. “ _I’m afraid that’s the best I could do_.”

 

Almost feverish, Johann fumbled for the bow, then drew it across the strings. Though out of tune, the sound was clear like dawn, a thing deserving of an audience. His mother shut her eyes as he adjusted the sound, then played a simple melody that rivaled the songs of sirens.

 

He lay the instrument by her side and sought her hand. “ _It’s perfect._ ”

 

Her smile, though weak, stirred warmth within Johann, and he squeezed her hand as though to force energy back into her body. She managed to look at him, appraising her son for what he was and what he could be, and wept.

 

“ _You’re going to be amazing,_ ” she said, smoothing her hand over his hair, resting her palm against his cheek. She shivered, lowered herself back down beneath the blankets, and closed her eyes. “ _Don’t you ever forget that._ ”

 

The silence that followed, punctuated only by the distant songs of nightingales, could suffocate.

 

Once Johann found he could rise, he recited the rites of burial and began preparations. As his mother wished, he would never forget her words. Her hope in him was overwhelming, but it was something he could cling to no matter where he went.

 

In later days, he found solace in the fact that his mother was never given the chance to forget him. She had died knowing his name, his face, his gift of music, and his love for her.

 

When he was young, there was, of course, the desire for fame, to be remembered. An artist knows their work may not be known in their lifetime, but if some fragment remains in their wake, perhaps their creations were worth something.

 

But beyond that, Johann felt a compulsion toward something greater. He couldn’t name the source nor the method, but to play a part in a larger scheme, for his music to serve a purpose—that might make his mother proud yet.

 

He traveled. A bard was meant to do so, to spread music, hope, energy, and life to all who bore witness to the melodies. His feet led him across the world, pausing in Phandalin to pluck his strings in the square and Rockport to perform by the industrial streets. He didn’t collect more money than he needed, and he provided his name only when prompted (or, in rare occasions, when he was fueled by adrenaline and lacked restraint).

 

He didn’t seek fame, not outright. Johann yearned for applause and the stray whistles that concluded his performances, but he cherished the grins, the tears caught just before spilling, more than anything.

 

As time passed, he would grow solemn, more reserved, but his music grew richer, as though enchanted, full of raw emotion he couldn’t bear to express in words alone. When he played, he collaborated, taking note of the weather, the crowd, the instrument—all manners of factors he had never considered to be relevant. The more he accounted for the details, the lovelier his compositions sounded, the better they were received.

 

At the end of each concert, he would clutch his instrument to his chest and bow, his pulse thudding in his ears, rendering him deaf to the audience’s response if only for a moment. In this silence, he imagined his mother smiling, offering her praise, repeating her promise: _You’re going to be amazing._

 

But it was not enough.

 

Johann scrawled songs on scraps, scribbling notes in the margins of books. Each mundane scale and unsatisfactory tune landed in a pile to be burned. His fingers ached with effort, growing stiff as he composed late into the night. He was feverish in his desire for greatness. A musician who could play all the notes and chords was a commodity. One who could craft songs beautiful enough to stir buried emotions, to coax tears from the driest eyes and smiles from the saddest lips—that would be a musician worth remembering.

 

He wore himself weary. He went weeks without rest. His music remained pure and light, and Johann began to wonder if his mother had enchanted her instrument, that beautiful rosewood creation, to produce such a beautiful sound. At night, when he let his thoughts roam as he massaged his tender wrists in the dark chamber of some tavern, he loathed to imagine it. His mother wouldn’t betray him, not deliberately, but he knew just how badly she had wanted him to succeed.

 

On he played, hesitantly plucking the strings and learning to fear and doubt the reactions of his audience. Did they cheer for him or his instrument? The more uncertain he became, the less he wanted to play.

 

Johann settled in Neverwinter. He had always lamented the prospect of stagnation and residency, but with sore feet and feeble mind, he felt no drive to pursue his nomadic quest. Perched on street corners, Johann idly played notes, drawing them from nothing, competing with the sounds of industry.

 

When dusk fell, Johann collected himself, wiping sweat from his forehead. There was no applause here, no weeping patrons, just a handful of coins tossed into his travel case like an afterthought. Neverwinter, it seemed, had no time for him.

 

But still, he played. As though inspired by his apparent anonymity, Johann ventured forth to the same corner each day. The morning sun glittered off his strings, and on occasion, passerby would pause, craning their necks to catch the notes, smiling as they continued on their way.

 

Well into the winter, he performed this ritual. Even when the wind numbed his hands, he played. His music tethered him to the earth, rooted him in song. He would close his eyes and perform until his heart raced too loudly and his breathing disrupted the rhythm.

 

In the dark of the night one Candlenights Eve, Johann concluded his piece and found himself trembling. He nearly dropped his bow to the snow laying at his feet. Only when flakes fell upon his nose and clung to his eyelashes did he realize it was snowing. Silence had fallen over Neverwinter. He imagined he could still hear the echo of his final note lingering over the empty streets like a ghost.

 

And then, someone began to clap.

 

The sound was muffled for the individual wore thick gloves, but the applause was genuine. Standing before him was a woman, regal of stature, a scarf draped around her face and shoulders to conceal her features.

 

In spite of this, Johann could still clearly see the tears collecting at the corners of her eyes, how her skin wrinkled as though from a smile.

 

“ _That was beautiful._ ”

 

Johann laid his instrument in its case before blowing onto his hands. “ _Yeah,_ ” he said dully, “ _I_ _know._ ”

 

“ _As is your instrument._ ”

 

“ _It was a gift from my mother._ ” Lacking practice in conversation, Johann found himself looking up to the windows across the street, shadows crossing over the illuminated panels as families partook in celebratory traditions.

 

The woman before him stepped closer, peering into the case. Johann felt no malice from her, but he stiffened anyway; she was strange and forward, and Johann had grown accustomed to existing as a shadow, disregarded except when convenient.

 

Her scarf slipped down to reveal her smile, and the warmth it spread to Johann was achingly familiar, bearing a maternal comfort he had almost forgotten. “ _She must be proud,_ ” the woman said. “ _To create such lovely music from this instrument… You have a gift, ah…_ ”

 

“ _Johann,_ ” he supplied automatically. “ _It might be enchanted or something._ ”

 

The woman furrowed her brows and shook her head, looking at him with such sincerity, Johann nearly took a step back to escape it. “ _While it is a remarkable instrument,_ ” she said, “ _there’s no magic here. Except for what lies in you, Johann._ ”

 

His mouth fell open, just enough to betray his surprise. It would take time (though admittedly, not much) for him to adjust to this reality, to recognize that his talent was just that. In that moment, however, Johann simply shut the lid to his case, protecting his instrument, and straightened to face her.

 

“ _Are you some kind of scout or agent or something?_ ” he asked. She didn’t look like someone who could secure shows or produce merchandise, but Johann tried not to judge appearances.

 

“ _Are you a composer?_ ” she countered.

 

“ _I do a bit of songwriting in my free time, yeah._ ”

 

There was a flash of sadness in her eyes, though she was quick to conceal it, gazing down the solemn street. “ _You must be lonely, playing without an audience. Musicians long to be celebrated, after all._ ”

 

Johann nearly agreed without thinking, but he gave himself pause before shaking his head. “ _There’s no point in chasing futile dreams,_ ” he said. “ _All I want is to play my music and, if I’m lucky, for it to be heard._ ”

 

At this, the woman smiled softly, and she placed a warm hand on Johann’s shoulder. “ _Johann, your music will be heard, and your work will be commended. I can promise you that._ ”

 

Her certainty did not come as a comfort, and though he considered fleeing, he remained, chin lifted and gaze steady, heart thudding in his chest. “ _How can you be sure? Who_ are _you?_ ”

 

“ _My name is Lucretia,_ ” she said, and she tilted her face toward the southernmost moon, basking in its glow. “ _I believe I have a job for you._ ”

**Author's Note:**

> In which I will NEVER be over Johann's death. *shakes fist at the Griffin* Curse you for killing my boy.


End file.
